


Interlude: Juniberries And Bluebells

by TheQueen



Series: Pack Relations (And Other Miscommunications) [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Gen, Pre-Canon, Years&Years: An Allura Zine, Zine Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheQueen/pseuds/TheQueen
Summary: Only now, Allura can admit she resented her. Her absence. Her face. Her love.ORA story about Allura and her Mother.A Zine Piece





	Interlude: Juniberries And Bluebells

A week before my mother died, I watched from cool, marble steps as my father and Coran walked the southern garden, their faces lost to the sea of bluebells and roses and juniberries. The heat was just past the point of bearable, beating against the back of my neck as I sipped from a cool glass..

My mother had insisted on curls that week. I remember because the curls had stuck to my forehead, made flat by my sweat. I had woken to a team of nannies, their strong hands pulling my hair back into neat little twirls of silver. The dress equally pinned and poked until the bow did not bend so much as crinkle when I sat. I remember groaning at the tightness of my shoes. I had not seen her yet that week, but I had seen the shoes she had asked me to wear.

That was my mother’s way of affection.

And then, as if summoned by my surly thoughts, she had appeared. Dressed in curls upon curls and yet she floated. As if appearing on the wind or of the wind, she walked with soft dainty steps until she stood just behind me. The days she was capable of standing on her own two feet, especially in the last months, were an occasion of celebration.

“Allura,” she had said and I rose with ceremony. Allura,  _ alluring, _ that’s why my mother had named me such. Beautiful. Radiant.  _ Words better suited for her than me _ , I had thought. I still think. Beauty amongst beauties. The crowning gem amongst my father’s many beautiful wives.

I had her face and none of her grace.

She had smiled but she had not sat. She looked out across the garden and to my father and his other bride and said nothing before looking back at me. I waited. She nodded and then departed.

 

 

 

Two years before my mother died, she spent a week in the care of nurses and doctors who all blurred together. Their faces the same tight-worry, their eyes the same fearful-frantic. I had passed them in the hall. Small, smaller. Just at their knees. Eyes wide as I took in a commotion I only saw in the days before festivals and parties.

My father had been strained. His eyes never truly looking at me during our lessons. His mind never truly present in court. He spent most days and nights at her bed. His other wives--Coran, Vedkah, Slvina, Lufti--took care of me. They attempted to console me, to distract me.

It had been my only indication that something was wrong.

I remember the way Lufi had taken me into her arms one night as I slipped into sleep, easy as breathing. Worry something for a future self. Loss something for a future self. She had reassured, “It’ll be alright, Allura. All will be well.”

I had not understood. I had not cared. My world had been loud and chaotic but nothing had changed except for the absence of my father. When it settled, only a few weeks later, when my father returned to his normal ways, and when the strangers had left without a party, I had gone on unaware.

My mother did not visit me then.

And I did not visit my mother.

 

 

 

Two days before my mother died, she called me to her bedside.

I was woken and given fifteen minutes in the shower before a maid had come to do my hair and my face. When I was ready, I was sent to her room where a doctor or six sat in attendance. My father, strangely, absent.

It was, by most accounts, a lovely room. I have only been a few times. Large bay windows bathing the room in sunlight as they overlooked a series of brightly colored flowers. Lucky, she passed while they bloomed.

I took the chair that was usually my father’s and waited.

“You look beautiful,” she said. I thanked her.

“I missed you,” she said. I mumbled something similar. I had missed her as well. I always missed her.

But in many ways, only now, I can admit I resented her. Her absence. Her face. Her love.

She tried to smile for me. I smiled for her. I was bored. I did not want to be here. I waited for the point of our meeting. She never sent for me without a point.

“I am dying,” she finally said.

“Yes,” I replied. I had known this for a while now, years really. She was always dying. “But I think it will only be temporary.”

She laughed then. She always had a beautiful laugh, something that turned heads. When she was done, she took my hand. “Allura. Do you know why I named you Allura?”

I shook my head and noted the way my hand fit in hers.

“You have always been,” she said, “blessed with power. People will come to you. Tempted first for your beauty and then for your power, your crown. It is both a burden and a gift.”

She looked out at the window and I followed her line of sight out into the garden, “Your father made this garden for me. He said the flowers reminded him of me. Because I am beautiful, I was gifted a King and with it I gained this life and this garden.”

“Allura.” I looked at her, this woman I never got the chance to know. “Do be careful with your crown.”

Then I was dismissed.

 

 

 

Six years and two months before my mother died, I had a birthday party.

I did not usually have birthday parties. I am royalty. I am a figure head. Unrestricted access into my home is usually seen as an unnecessary risk. Even my classmates could be dangerous.

But that time I had a party. I was turning four; I remember with startling clarity the number that sat upon my birthday cake, a juniberry-pink number four surrounded by a series of smaller candles set on top of a cake much too large for a pack of children. My peers had been invited. My father’s court and their children had been invited. Even a few well-loved allies and their children had arrived.

It had seemed like everyone in the world had come to my party. Even my mother.

I had been stealing a second piece of cake when she arrived. Beautiful as always. I remember her dress, her hair. I remember the way no one had dared to tear their eyes from her. I had not cared. I had snuck out into the garden with my cake, scurrying my way through the juniberries and the roses and the yellowest tulips in an attempt to get away from the cameras. 

I was halfway through my slice—my hands sticky with frosting and my cheeks covered in crumbs—when my mother came to me. Silent as always, like magic. When she sat at my side and reached over with a cloth to wipe the mess from my cheeks, I had been pleased. When she undid my hair bun and helped untangle the strands, I had felt relaxed. I remember falling asleep in that garden. I remember hearing her sing as I slowly fell asleep with my head against her lap and her hands in my hair. I remember being happy that day.

I remember being happy with her.

 

 

 

_ What changed? _

 

 

 

Two days after my mother died, I returned to the last place I saw her, bedridden and breaking.

_ Dying _ , she had told me. But I had not listened. Why would this time be any different than any other time? Why would this time be the last time? 

She is dead now.

I sit in my father’s chair and look out over the same garden in full bloom, built by my father for my mother. And I know I do not understand.

I am not sad. I am not grieving. Sadness requires closeness. Grief -an emotion one can only feel after a loss. I hardly feel the loss of my mother. She has always been more an idea than a person, more a figure than a mother. Mother more a title than a relationship.

I cannot stand to be in this room and yet I am here. I do not want to do this: to sit where my father once sat and think of her. They have asked me to write a eulogy.  My speech will be broadcasted over every frequency my father and his court and his wives sees fit. I have been told it is my duty to grieve for cameras and microphones.

So now I am here, sitting in this room and sorting through my memories for any inkling of what to say. How do I  articulate something I am only just starting to grasp? I look at the same view she saw for more than two years and try to understand. I think of my mother and I remember.  

_ Be careful with your crown. _

**Author's Note:**

> This zine was honestly a ton of fun to work on and I think it turned out beautifully. I'd been itching for an excuse to explore Allura's relationship with her mother further in this series and I'm so glad I was able to! 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think. ^^


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